


come away o human child (to the water and the wilds)

by SparkleMoose



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Also Why Isn't Ehlers Danlos Syndrome A Tag Yet, Autism Spectrum, Culture Shock, Disability, Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, Existential Crisis, Families of Choice, Foster Care, Galahdian Culture, Galahdian Magic, Galahdian Religion & Lore, Galahdian Royalty, M/M, Magical Realism, Parallel Souls Merging Into One, Politics, Secrets, War, Where My Other Folks With Shitty Joints At?, Worldbuilding, or an attempt at it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-04-27 16:12:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14429334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkleMoose/pseuds/SparkleMoose
Summary: Quinn dies with a large piece of metal sticking out of him.He wakes up in an entirely different body.Things go downhill from there.





	1. Prologue: The Stolen Man

Quinn is dead.

Or, well, he was supposed to be. Quinn is fairly certain one simply doesn’t survive a piece of metal being shoved through their chest, at least not without divine intervention of some kind.

He has a feeling that whatever Gods are out there aren’t that kind.

Still, if Quinn is dead than that doesn’t explain why he can feel hard rock digging into his back and the cold wind against his bare arms. It doesn’t explain why he can move his hands, wiggle his feet. It doesn’t explain the absence of gushing blood and the piece of metal that should be piercing his chest.

He opens his eyes and raises a hand to block out the light of the midday sun. The sound of nature, of the bubbling creek he’s apparently next to and the chime of birds in the air all fade to a dull roar as Quinn stares at his hands.

They are not his hands, they are callused as his hands should be but the calluses are in the wrong places. These are not the calluses of a working man, rather, they seem to be the hands of someone who has spent more than his fair share of time-fighting. Yet despite that, the hands are slender. Long fingers that curve toward him give them an artistic flair but the curve is familiar to Quinn, it is perhaps the only recognizable thing about them.

The hands have simple blackwork tattoos inked into them. On his middle finger, below the nail is a circle; halfway through the circle a vertical line begins, it continues down his finger and onto the back of his hand where it ends when it meets up with a larger circle. The circle on the back of the hand has other lines coming out of it, they all end at different points on his hand. Some are longer, others shorter, yet they all come together in a way that makes the circle seem like a sun.

Quinn is fairly certain he never had any tattoos before whatever happened, happened. Still, he raises his other hand to find what look to be vines coming down all four of his fingers and his thumb. They end at the wrist, where they connect to a thick, black, band that encircles his wrist.

The tattoos are nice Quinn will admit, however they would be nicer if they weren’t on him. As it stands, these are not his hands, and Quinn lets himself wonder if he’s become a bodysnatcher before letting his hands drop back down to his side and pushing himself into a sitting position.

Scanning the horizon, Quinn sees nothing but trees in the distance. There is no sign of civilization aside from the road he woke up next to. Blinking rapidly, he turns as he hears the sound of rushing water to his left. Pushing himself off the ground and onto his feet, Quinn turns himself fully to face the noise.

There is indeed a small, winding river that leads to a walking bridge and a well-trod path a few meters away from where Quinn is standing. Sighing deeply, Quinn sets off toward the river.

It’d be best to view what he actually looks like after the crash after all, and if he is a bodysnatcher then he should at least know what the body he snatched looks like.

When Quinn arrives at the water, he stares out at opposite shore as he gathers his courage to look down and see what exactly happened to him. Quinn closes his eyes for a moment before opening them and in a fluid motion looks down at the water to see a stranger's startled face stare back him.

The that’s staring back at Quinn can’t be older than thirteen at the most. Baby fat still hangs to brown cheeks. Red, curly hair frames his cheeks. A braid bearing a bead with a strange etching on it swings wildly as Quinn recoils from the face staring back at him from the water.

His hair isn’t supposed to be red. Quinn’s hair is supposed to be a rich, dark, brown. _It’s not supposed to be red._

The thought sends Quinn falling backward onto the ground.

_His hair isn’t supposed to be red._

Is he a bodysnatcher? Did he take the body he’s currently in from someone else? He should be dead. He had lived his life, it hadn’t been a glamorous one mind you but it had been his and now here he is, stuck in a body that isn’t his own and Quinn-

Quinn feels sick. What happened to the previous owner of this body? What happened to him? Who decided to shove him into a different body without consulting him first? What is going on?

He knows he’s hyperventilating knows that he should calm down but he can’t. How can he when he’s missing memories and in a different body than the one he was born in? Eventually, sobs break free from his throat and Quinn feels tears fall from his eyes. He feels like a child again, alone and unsure, helpless in the face of what has happened to him.

Quinn brings his hands up to his face to wipe the tears away and laughs, hysterically, at the sight of the tattoos. It’s almost funny to think that this body, this person had been so much younger than Quinn yet still had the balls to get tattoos when Quinn himself never had.

  
The moment he moves his hands away from his face a faint glow comes from the ink on his hands. Quinn jerks backward, startled and holds his hands as far away from him as possible. The glow becomes brighter and Quinn has to squint as he stares at his hands in shock.

He's fairly certain that tattoos aren't supposed to glow. Just as the thought crosses his mind, the glow stops abruptly and Quinn's world goes black.

* * *

When he comes too he's no longer sitting on the edge of a river. Rather, he's knee deep in what appears to be an endless ocean that goes on forever in all directions. Above him, a storm seems ready to rage and Quinn has no idea what's going on.

And he's tired of it. He's tired of being clueless and helpless and he's filled with such rage in that moment and he opens his mouth and screams. The ocean seems to echo his rage as large, monstrous waves form around him. Quinn screams and screams and lightning flashes in the sky; all but blinding him.

Quinn stumbles backward and falls into nothingness.

* * *

Quinn awakes back on the shore of the river. Somehow he's managed to fall on his back and he lays on the ground staring up at the clear blue sky. Quinn wakes with the memories of an entirely different life in his head.

 _Ferox Pacem._ That was the name of the boy who wore this body before Quinn did. That was the man of the boy who was training to be a priest, who had been chosen by two gods to serve them. The name of the boy would according to Galahdian tradition would be royalty.

It had been the name of the boy who died in a ditch before he had the chance to live his life.

A whisper that slides through his mind like clear water tells him that that name, that Ferox, is just another version of Quinn. It shows him how both of them died, how similar they were even with their disabilities. Both of them have Ehlers Danlos and Autism, both of them weren't afraid to laugh and rage as they deemed fit. 

Both of them died too soon.

If the two of them were the same person, with the only difference being the universe they were born in, then Quinn supposes that Ramuh could merge their souls into one. Make two people who were the same but different into one person.

The thought sends shivers down his spine. He doesn't like the thought that he's in a different body than the one he's used to, and if Quinn is used to being in his other body than does that mean that during the soul fusion Quinn's personality and preferences became dominate? Quinn knows Ferox like the back of his, their, hand and if he looks he can find knowledge and preferences that he hadn't had before.

Quinn never fought before, yet Ferox knows how to fight with staves and daggers. Quinn never believed in magic, Ferox could coax plants to grow and summon moisture from the air.

Ferox had lived in what Quinn thought was a fictional universe.

Surprisingly, it isn't.

Curious, Quinn, because that's his name, it's the name he prefers and the name that's staying, holds up his hands and slides them across the air willing water to form. He stares wide-eyed as a small stream of water appears, following his movements as Quinn traces aimless drawings into the afternoon air.

It's amazing.

Nobody can know about it. His knowledge from the game, his life experience as Ferox tells him that people would use him for this power, would kill him if he tried to use it against them. Quinn just got back from being dead.

He has no intentions of going back to the afterlife so soon.

Letting his memories of Ferox guide him, Quinn flicks his wrist and the water dissipates into thin air. Pushing himself to his feet, Quinn stares at the sun and wonders if he could make it back to his previous campsite.

If he moves quickly, he should be able to make it before night comes.

* * *

 

Quinn makes it to the camp just in time. Night falls quickly around him and he moves carefully into the tree that holds his belongings.

A retractable spear lies next to the bag he had abandoned when he left earlier. The spear had been his mothers, and Quinn holds it close as he waits for the night to pass.

He eventually falls into a fitful sleep in the tree, hands clutched tight around the spear in case he has to use it.

He doesn't.

* * *

Quinn wakes from sunlight in his eyes. He slowly guides himself and his gear down the tree and onto the ground.

He had been chased by MT's who managed to kill him the day before. He had been caught unarmed and unprepared.

Quinn holds the spear closer to him.

It won't happen again.

 

 


	2. Home Song

Going through his memories of this life proves interesting to say the least. He had been raised by priests and priestess who took to travelling after the Fall. Quinn has never seen Galahd, has never walked on its shores or swam through its waters but it still calls to him the way a mother calls to their lost child.

‘Come home,’ it whispers on the breeze, ‘Come home. I am waiting.’

Quinn longs to follow that voice, to return to the islands of his people and rebuild. He longs to make Galahd a home again but as long as Niflheim still stands, as long as Quinn is still a child he doesn’t see how he can do any of that.

Quinn ponders these thoughts as he walks alongside a road busy with traffic. He thinks about what he should do now. The priests and priestess that raised him are dead, slaughtered by the same MT’s that killed Ferox.

Quinn has no one else to go to. No one else that would take him in. Though he and the priests and priestesses had helped any of those that needed their aid Quinn doesn’t think that those they helped would help him. There is no one he would trust with the knowledge of who he is, what he can do, anyway. The path ahead looks bleak, and the only way Quinn can think to make it work is to become a Hunter.

He doesn’t know if they’d accept him, doesn’t know if they would let him join considering his age but Quinn can fight. He knows first aid and is perfectly willing to slaughter any beast or man that attacks him.

Quinn also has a mask. A mint coloured thing with gold scrollwork painted on. It used to be a mask used in ceremonies honouring Ramuh and Leviathan. The Priest Chosen by The Gods, that would have been king in the old traditions, would wear the mask and perform rites to grant their sailors safe passage through the seas. To grant their Hunters luck on their quests and finally to honour the dead and fallen of the year past.

The last priest that had used it had fallen with Galahd. Quinn is the only one left, and the chances of running into a Hunter that recognizes the mask is high, but not high enough to give Quinn pause as he adjusts his pack and slides the mask on his face.

He enters an Outpost and leaves with a Hunt.

* * *

The Hunt is, surprisingly, easy. Too easy as far as Quinn is concerned. Then again, it had only been a handful of Goblins at night and honestly, the daemons were more challenging than the Goblins themselves.

Quinn rolls his eyes behind the mask as the tipster who gave him the Hunt looks surprised to see him back and tells the man that the Goblins won’t be bothering them anymore.

“At least,” Quinn adds, “Until some more move in.”

“Guess we’ll call on you for that then,” the tipster says, his snark not going unnoticed by Quinn who grins behind his mask.

“Only if you pay,” he says.

* * *

Quinn becomes a Hunter.

It doesn’t hit him until a year later when he’s hunting down Seadevils that had been terrorizing Galdin Quay and the realization almost causes him to lose an arm to a Seadevil’s bite.

“Fuck,” Quinn curses, and smoothly regains his bearings just in time to slide a dagger into the Seadevil’s eye socket. Removing the dagger, Quinn grimaces at the gore on the other end of it.

“Shit,” he says, “That’s gross.”

The rest of the Hunt is easy, and when Quinn heads back to Galdin Quay, he stops at a nearby Haven and lets his magic ease him to sleep.

He dreams of open water and storms. He dreams of jungle and ruins and he dreams of the feeling of soil beneath his feet and laughter in the open air.

Quinn dreams and flowers bloom around him.

When he wakes, he’s surrounded by flowers. Quinn rolls his eyes, gathers his supplies and leaves.

This isn’t the first time Quinn has woken in a bed of flowers he’s made. He’s fairly certain that it has something to do with the fact he can feel his magic inside him, can feel it calling to be used but the truth is using it, having the power to control elemental energy, is something that scares Quinn.

He only uses magic as a last resort.

Something tells him that his magic is displeased at being used so little.

* * *

Quinn is a Hunter, and as a Hunter, that means he should probably get some dog tags or join up with some organization.

He doesn’t, he has no one waiting for him. He doesn’t think his people would miss him if he passed; they don’t know who he is after all, but he still hears Galahd’s call on the wind and if the tattoo’s on his skin seem to glow faintly whenever he thinks of returning then that means nothing.

* * *

There are times Quinn runs across MT patrols. He uses magic then, uses magic because he knows that he doesn’t stand a chance against them without it. Quinn may be skilled, may be talented, but fear makes the best of them weak and Quinn still remembers how it felt to have a bullet enter his heart.

So Quinn uses magic. Calls a storm and watches them do down like flowers under the harsh rain.

He pretends it doesn’t make him feel better.

If Quinn begins to actively hunt down MT’s then that’s his choice, if on more than one occasion he’s stumbled back to an Outpost or Haven with a bullet wound or two then that’s his problem.

_Vengeance,_ a part of him whispers, _Vengeance for_ Galahd _, for those that raised him. Vengeance for his people and for himself_.

* * *

Quinn meets Dave Auburnbrie when the older man is stationed inside Crow’s Nest Diner, discussing something with the tipster that gave Quinn the task of killing two Grandhorns and three Dualhorns. The tipster gestures to Quinn when Quinn walks in the door and Dave turns to look at Quinn.

“So,” Dave says, looking Quinn up and down in a glance, “You’re the one I’ve been hearing so much about.”

“No one else has this mask,” Quinn quips, “I must be.”

“Bit small for a Hunter,” Dave notes, his eyes narrowed, “How old are you, kid?”

“Old enough.” Dave looks like he doesn’t believe him.

“Where are your parents?” Dave asks.

“Dead.”

“Your family?”

“Dead.”

Dave sighs. “Is there anyone you could go to?” he asks.

Quinn pretends to think about it. “No,” he admits, “Nobody.”

“Well,” Dave says, “Shit. You know I can’t just let you run off hunting things, don’t you?”

“I don’t see why not,” Quinn says dryly, “I’m still alive aren’t I?”

“Hunting is dangerous kid, you could die any moment. One mistake and you’re dead.” Quinn raises an eyebrow at Dave’s words.

“You make it sound as though I didn’t know that,” he says, “I know that fairly well by now, it’s been a year and a half since I started. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” At the unimpressed noise, Quinn makes Dave sighs again, “Listen, kid, I’m just worried. You’re too young to die trying to make a name for yourself.”

Quinn narrows his eyes behind his mask. “I’m not doing this to make a name,” he replies hotly, “I’m doing this because there isn’t anything else I can do.”

“You could work here,” the tipster offers.

“I’d rather not,” Quinn replies dryly, “Hunting has given me restless feet.”

“Kid,” Dave says, “I can’t talk you out of this can I?”

“No.”

Dave groans. “Fine then,” he says, “But we’re gonna make a deal.”

* * *

The deal is that Quinn has to spar with Dave to prove he’s able to handle himself. By the look on Dave’s face when they’re done, Quinn has done more than that.

Quinn smirks and ignores the way his wrists and knees ache the way they always do when he’s come back from a hunt.

He pops a painkiller when he’s alone and moves on with the knowledge that Dave wants him to check in once and a while to make sure that Quinn is still alive.

Quinn leaves the outpost with a pair of dog tags around his neck.

* * *

Quinn is fighting MT’s, is using magic when the air around him shifts. People are coming it warns him, and Quinn curses and slices through the neck of an MT with one of his daggers before launching the other at another MT’s helmeted face.

He doesn’t watch as it hits its mark, instead he picks up a discarded gun and begins shooting at he MT’s around him. That’s how the Glaives find him, shooting and hitting MT’s as he dodges between them in an effort not to get hit himself.

Quinn watches as a kukri blade lodges itself into an MT that came too close to Quinn for comfort and watches in distinct awe as a Glaive, as Nyx goddamn Ulric, appears in a warp and pulls the blade out of the dead MT in one fluid movement before disappearing again.

Quinn blinks, dodges a hail of bullets, and bulls a stiletto knife from his boot. He should help them, after all, they are kind of saving his ass.

He doesn’t help as much as he would have liked too, the blades are nimble and deadly and the battle is finished before Quinn knows what happened. Quinn blinks, shrugs a bit, and proceeds to walk over to a dead body that still holds one of his daggers.

He rips it out of the MT with little regard for what others think of his rough handling. Quinn ignores the way his magic seems to sing in his veins as it recognizes more of its people around them, ignores how it wants to latch onto them and reassure them that Galahd is still there, that it exists wherever it’s people are.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, and Quinn is so distracted by the fact he has to struggle to contain his magic that he almost winds up stabbing Titus Drautos, Captain of the Kingsglaive, through the heart.

Almost, because Drautos grabs the wrist of the hand wielding the dagger and presses so Quinn is forced to let go of the dagger. Quinn tries to rip his wrist out of Drautos’ grip but is unable too.

“Fuck,” Quinn hisses, moving his head upward so he can glare at Drautos. Grateful that he doesn’t wear his mask when travelling, “Do you mind?”

“I mind being stabbed,” Drautos replies dryly.

Quinn flushes. “You startled me,” he protests, “You should know better than to sneak up on someone like that! Especially after a fight.”

“He’s right, Captain,” someone says, “Wouldn’t want to lose you to a runt after all.” That gathers some snickers from the other Glaives. Drautos rolls his eyes.

“Burn the bodies,” he orders and eyes Quinn curiously, “I want to have a talk with the runt here.”

The Glaives move to throw the bodies into a pile. Quinn glares at the man still holding his wrist.

“If I let you go,” Drautos says, “Will you try and attack?” Quinn rolls his eyes, even as brash as Quinn is he knows that he stands no chance against a group of Glaives.

“No,” Quinn answers truthfully, “You helped me, so that means you’re not gonna kill me. Least not yet.”

The smell of something burning fills the air and Quinn wrinkles his nose at the smell of it. Drautos eyes him curiously and let’s Quinn’s wrist do.

“I’m going to bend over to pick up and sheathe my weapon now,” Quinn informs Drautos like he’s talking to a child, “Please do not try to murder me for it.”

Drautos scoffs, Quinn hides his snicker by bending down and doing what he said he would do.

“Hey, Captain,” Someone, Quinn looks up and recognizes it to be Crowe.

Crowe who is flipping his dagger like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Quinn narrows his eyes, Crowe smirks. “Should we give the kid back his dagger?” she asks.

“He hasn’t tried to murder me again,” Drautos says dryly, “I don’t see why not.”

Instead of tossing the dagger over tot Quinn, Crowe saunters over and presents it to him handle first.

“I believe this is yours,” she says and Quinn takes the dagger from her.

“Yeah,” he says, sheathing the second dagger back on his hip, “Thanks.” Crowe winks at him and wanders back over to her fellow Glaives.

Quinn eyes Drautos as though the man is going to eat him.

“You’re Galahdian,” Drautos says, it’s more of a statement of a fact rather than a question, “Where are your guardians?” Quinn can’t help but wonder why people always ask him that.

“I don’t have any,” Quinn says, tugging at the bead he added to his hair for emphasis. The bead declares him the last of his family, and he doesn’t miss how Drautos’ eyes widen a fraction when they see it, “They’re dead.”

“You’re on your own then.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough,” Quinn says shrugging, “Not many want to look after a Galahdian orphan, you know?” At Quinn’s words, he notices how the rest of the Glaives, eavesdroppers that they are, happen to go still.

He rolls his eyes. “I’ve been doing fine,” he tells Drautos’ who for some reason looks as though he’s trying to hide his anger, “Hunts keep me busy and one of the more experienced Hunter’s check in on me from time to time.”

“You’re a Hunter,” Drautos says, voice flat, “How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” Quinn says, “Been doing this for two years now.”

Nyx curses, not even pretending not to listen anymore. “What the fuck,” he says, “You’re a child.”

Quinn really doesn’t understand why people always seem to think that he shouldn’t be hunting because of his age. He’s an orphan and has literally no one else to rely on; what else is he supposed to do.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he says, shifting awkwardly on his feet, “I mean, we all die sometime right? I just might die sooner than others, that’s all.” He can tell the rest of the Glaives want to protest loudly but Drautos holds up a hand to silence them.

“You’re coming with us,” Drautos says and his tone telling Quinn he shouldn’t argue.

Quinn does anyway.

“Yeah,” Quinn says, “I’d rather not.”

* * *

Libertus winds up dragging Quinn into the back of a van.

“This is kidnapping,” he informs the Glaives around him, “You are kidnapping me.”

Nyx snorts. “It’s for your own good kid.”

“Yeah,” Quinn says, “I doubt it.”

* * *

 

Quinn is handed over to Child Protective Services in Insomnia. He goes through test after test and they come to the conclusion that he's disabled.

Quinn rolls his eyes, he knew that the results are exactly what he knew that he already had.

He hears someone whisper to another person that because of his disabilities and the fact he's fifteen few people will want him. That doesn't bother Quinn as much as it probably should, he doesn't want another family. He doesn't want to be in Insomnia. He had been doing just fine as he was; even if others disagree.

At least he managed to get Drautos to pass along a message Quinn was sure would get to Dave, no use worrying the other Hunter about what Quinn was up to these days.

Quinn spends three weeks in an orphanage where everyone looks at him and decides to pick someone else.

Quinn spends three weeks in an orphanage until he's finally adopted by the Argentum family.

Quinn takes one look at the name, blinks, and utters one word:

"Fuck."

 


End file.
